


Drinking Whiskey in the Garden of Gethsemane

by MemoryDragon



Category: 1872 (Marvel) - Fandom, Marvel Secret Wars Battleworlds
Genre: 1872 (Marvel), Alcoholic Tony Stark, Drama, Interlude, M/M, Potential Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-08-08 23:12:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16438640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MemoryDragon/pseuds/MemoryDragon
Summary: Steve Rogers had a job to do and he's going to do it.





	Drinking Whiskey in the Garden of Gethsemane

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** I do not own Marvel 1872, nor do I make any claim to.  
>  **Warnings:** Alcohol. Lots of it. And some potential ulterior motives to Tony getting Steve drunk, though Steve can't confirm it.  
>  **Thanks:** Many thanks as always to narwhale_callin, who named this fic and put up with me not posting it for an extended period of time.  
>  **Notes:** This was written after the first volume had come out and before the second one dropped. I wanted it posted before then too, because I could sense the coming storm, but things happened and it ended up not getting posted. Then the wank fest happened. And while I still had enthusiasm for the comic, the fandom reaction and vitriol was just not worth delving into or even going near. I still haven't actually read the second issue or past it, which makes me slightly melancholy but not sad enough to really be bothered. 
> 
> So here is the short ficlet. It's not a fix it, and if you want to wank over what happened in the second issue, please do it elsewhere because I still don't want to deal with it. I'm just super angry and pissed off due to other factors in life and thought it might be nice to get a comment or two.

Steve Rogers resolutely did not think about his task. He tied the rope around Turk's wrists. Blood dripped down the corpse's neck, and Steve didn't think about it, nor did he think about the way Turk had looked before Steve shot him. He threw the end of the rope up to the second floor balcony, forcing his legs to remain steady as he walked up the stairs to finish the job.

He was no stranger to death. He'd seen it plenty before he came to Timely, and he'd bet Stark his weight in whiskey that he'd see it plenty more before he left. Probably soon, given this evening's events. He hauled up the four corpses - three of which were marked by his own bullets - and tied off the rope with the meanest knot he knew. Now they were hanging for the whole town to see the consequences of messing with the laws of the land. They were dead men, and dead men don't care what happens to them after they're dead.

He swallowed, then swallowed again, forcing his back straight as he took the rear exit to avoid the crowd that was going to form. He managed to get five paces from the back door before he doubled over, dry heaving the empty stomach that had already upturned its contents once today.

Steve had always done right by him, Turk had said. It had been a terrible way to go. Not that there were many good ones, and his mind readily supplied much more gruesome deaths on top of the blood that was still on his hands. He'd seen worse in the war. Too much. That didn't make what he'd just done any better. He was the law, but that felt far too close to the line for his comfort. What little he had of comfort, anyway.

He jumped at the hand in his hair. He automatically reached for the person's wrist, but the voice reassured him before he started fighting. "Easy," Stark said, coarse fingers massaging Steve’s scalp through his sweat-soaked mop.

Steve tried to stand and swallow back the bile, but strong arms kept him down. It was easy to forget that Stark had earned muscles as a blacksmith when he played the town drunkard so often. "Easy there, Sheriff," Stark said again, the smell of alcohol coming with him as he leaned over Steve.

Steve wanted to say he was fine, that he'd seen worse and this shouldn't be affecting him so much, but this was the sort of thing that would keep him up at night. Stringing up villains to make a point? That wasn't the sort of thing good men do. Turk had never been a good man. But that didn't mean he deserved what Steve had done. He'd made a promise after the war to avoid killing when he could, and for the most part he stuck with that promise. But now he'd not only killed, but desecrated the bodies after death.

It'd been a long time since he'd had to kill a man.

When he tried to open his mouth to say all of that, he dry heaved again. Stark kept running his fingers through Steve's hair, murmuring soft assurances with a soothing voice that Steve hadn't known the man had. He was a little ashamed to admit that he needed it just then.

Steve stopped shaking, finally not needing to swallow or dry heave after every breath. Stark's hand moved to his back as the man slipped under Steve's arm to help him stand. "I'm fine," Steve grumbled, even as he leaned more heavily on Stark's shoulder when his legs didn't quite work the way they oughtta. He hated being betrayed by his own body.

"Course ya are, Sheriff," Stark said, leading them away from the crowd. Steve didn't pay much attention to where they went, but he recognized the Stark Enterprise shop even from the back entrance. He'd dragged a drunken Tony to it often enough, not that the man had much dignity to be spared by going in the front. It was a bit of a shock to be on the other end of the leading this time.

Given how much Stark had been drinking, Steve was surprised the man was so deft with his keys getting in. Steve almost always had to open the door for him, usually having to check Tony's pockets for the keys. "Thought you were drunk," Steve muttered.

"I am," Stark said, sighing heavily as he led Steve to the small kitchen. "Could be drinking right now too. You've an inconvenient habit of cutting me off when I least want ya to."

A cup of water was pushed into his hands and Steve spat out his first mouthful into the sink. Then he gulped down the water carefully, finding himself a little grateful for Stark's hovering. It was fair turnabout, he supposed, given how often he'd done the same for Stark.

"Why'd ya get involved, Stark?" Steve asked. He eyed the kitchen table, then sank down to the floor, leaning over his legs as he rested his arms around his knees. He could have rested his forehead on them, but he wanted to see Stark's face when he answered.

"Old habits die hard," Stark said with a shrug, sitting next to him on the floor. His eyes had an honest enough look about them that made Steve wonder. He took a pull from his flash, then offered what was in his other hand to Steve. That wasn't a flask, but the bottle Tony used to refill it.

Steve eyed the bottle of whiskey. It was about half full, but he had no doubt it was powerful enough to do the trick. It was the absolute last thing Steve needed. His stomach wouldn't thank him, but his nerves would. He didn't drink very often, not when he was supposed to be the model of the law for a lawless crowd, but he could feel the pull of the bottle. It'd stop the memories from rushing around in his head, even if just for a little while. That was a dangerous sort of thought around these parts.

Stark shook the bottle temptingly, holding it out for him. Steve sighed, grabbing it and throwing it back as he'd seen Stark do numerous times. His eyes prickled as it burned his throat. He coughed as he put it down, Stark petting him on the back. "'s strong," Steve said once his throat had recovered. "Blazes, Stark. Ain't you got smoother whiskey?"

"Sometimes I like the burn," Stark replied. It spoke volumes more about Stark's self-abuse than Steve currently wanted to contemplate.

He took another drink and coughed, pulling his legs tighter to his chest as he kept the bottle away from a surprised Stark. Stark didn't need to be drinking any more of it, and Steve decided it wasn't so bad on the second try. "You shouldn't have gotten involved if you don't have a gun," Steve said.

"Then who would I have to serenade if they got the drop on you?" Stark's hand was in his hair again, ruffling it fondly. "Though if Banner's right about that there death wish of yours, I got plenty of means that don't require such ghastly sights."

"No," Steve said, looking at the bottle for a moment before downing a good portion of what was left. Stark whistled in approval. It stopped burning at least, but Steve could already feel it working its way to his head without any food in his stomach.

"No to my offer or no to the death wish?" Stark asked. "I'll admit, I'd rather it be the latter, if you don't mind. I'd miss our nightly escapades."

Steve grunted, staring at the bare kitchen. Stark didn't put on a light, but even in the darkness it looked clean enough. It usually always was, and Steve was continuously surprised by that no matter how many times he saw it.

"That's not an answer," Stark said. Steve just drank the last of the whiskey before Stark stole back the bottle.

Stark shook it mournfully. "How do you like that, drinking a man's whiskey without saving the parched man a drop."

"You've had enough," Steve said, his head starting to feel pleasantly addled by the liquor's effects. It slowed his thoughts just enough to stop seeing blood. He probably didn't need the rest of it either, but it was dark and he'd seen enough today not to care.

He stared into the darkness quietly, Stark's shoulder pressed against his as they sat on the hard floor. He should be heading back to the jail to check on Red Wolf. He should be doing any number of things. He didn't move though, and Stark's steady breaths beside him were comforting.

"We have to fight them," he said finally. "What they're doing, it ain't right, Stark. Somebody's gotta make a stand."

"How terribly heroic of you," Stark said, but his hand returned to Steve's hair like it was drawn there, and Steve didn't remember moving, but his head now rested on Tony's shoulder. Here in the dark, Stark was _Tony_ , though Steve knew how dangerous that line of thought could be. Right now he felt like a lost soul in a black-hearted town, and having someone just as broken beside him was a comfort he wouldn't forsake.

"I reckon that notion of yours is as good as a death wish," Tony continued. "But if anyone can do it, it'd be you."

"You could fight too."

Tony's fingers stilled, but they didn't leave their perch. "Never been much of a hero. You know that, Sheriff."

Steve shook his head, dislodging Tony's hand. "You used to believe in doing the right thing. In saving people."

"And look where that got me!" Tony said, his voice sharp and angry in a way Steve rarely heard.

"Tony-"

"I'm too sober for this conversation," Tony said, making to stand. "I need-"

Steve grabbed his arm before he could move. "Let go," Tony growled.

"You could help people again," Steve said, knowing his face was flushed from the drink but not caring. Tony'd never see it in the darkness anyway. He kept his grip on Tony's arm.

For a moment, Steve wasn't sure if Tony would try to pull away. Tony seemed geared for a fight, but Steve could hold his own. Probably. Damn, he should have known better than to accept that drink.

But the fight left Tony like a wild horse submitting to a gentle hand. He slumped back down, running his hand through his own hair then rubbing his eyes. "Ya got that way about ya, Steve. One that makes a man want to be better than he is," Tony said quietly. "I ain't never been that good. Don't you go placing any of that hope on me because I'll be letting ya down soon enough."

Steve didn't say anything to that. Wasn't much to say. He had to fight. Innocent people would keep dying until he won. Someone had to take a stand, or the law would fail Timely. Steve would fail Timely. Instead of talking, he leaned back on Tony's shoulder, wishing he could convince Tony that he wasn't that broken.

"Come on, you lush," Tony said. This time when he made to stand, Steve didn't stop him. "It's time for you to be getting some shut eye."

Steve grumbled, but didn't stop Tony from hauling him off the floor. He did try to push Tony away to walk by himself, but his balance was off due to the drink. The world spinning startled him more than he was expecting. Tony slipped under his arm as he cursed the poison.

"Not sleepin' tonight," Steve said, mentally planning ways to increase alcohol tolerance before he ever went near Tony's stash again. And without getting _this_ drunk.

"You are," Tony chuckled, leading Steve further into the house part of the shop.

"My bed's the other way," Steve said, but he didn't fight it. It confused him more than anything, why they weren't heading back outside. The crowd had probably died down enough by now.

Tony laughed in a way that sent heat down to Steve's belly and lower. "'Cause you won't sleep at all if I take you to yours. Don't worry none about your virtue, Sheriff. I'm just putting the big hero to bed."

Steve wasn't a hero. He couldn't save Tony from himself or the bottle, couldn't arrest those men without killing them. He also didn't think he'd mind much if his virtue weren't intact when he went for his morning ride, but that was probably a thought best saved for when he hadn't been drinking. He was, thankfully, still clear-headed enough to recognize that.

But not clear enough to recognize they had reached Tony's bedroom and that Tony was pulling off his boots. He lost a few moments and was surprised to find himself sitting on the bed. He tried to help, but Tony just batted his hands away and Steve didn't want to chance fumbling more. Tony didn't bother with the rest of Steve's clothes as he pushed Steve gently down onto his bed. Steve couldn't help but feel disappointed.

The bed smelled of alcohol and oil with a hint of that peppermint candy Tony professed a fondness for whenever supplies came from out of town. He rolled over, then tried to sit up. "Where're you sleepin'?"

"You let me worry about that," Tony said, pulling up a chair and propping his feet up on the bed. "I know you. Ya won't sleep if you go back to yours. You'll push yourself 'til you can't push no more, and then you'll be no help to any of us. Let me take care of you this once, since you're always taking care of me."

"I'm not gonna-"

Tony's hands were on his shoulders pushing him back down. "Sleep, Steve. You've got a full day of heroing ahead of you tomorrow."

Steve was going to try to sit up again - damn it, he knew he shouldn't have had that drink. It wasn't beyond Tony to have planned this, either - but Tony's hand moved to his hair where he resumed petting Steve. "Not a dog," Steve said, but he leaned into Tony's hand. "Not a hero, neither. Just doing what I have to."

"Sure ya are, Steve. And what you have to do now is sleep," Tony said, his voice fond.

He liked hearing Tony say his name, and he shivered. Steve felt his eyes slide closed despite his best intentions to insist on going back to his own bed. After what he'd seen today, the old nightmares were bound to be back so he wouldn't be sleeping, but taking Tony's bed didn't seem right. "Tony..."

"Go to sleep, Steve. Injustice will still need fighting tomorrow," Tony huffed.

He felt a soft brush of lips on his forehead. He had a brief moment to wonder if he'd imagined it before the drink lulled him to sleep.

~Fin~

**Author's Note:**

> Mem: And there you have it. Short as promised. I just want to ask again not to stir up the dead wank in the comments.
> 
> Quote of the fic:  
> "If it is possible, let this cup pass from me... if this cannot pass unless I drink it, your will be done."  
>  _Matthew 26: 39-42_


End file.
